Carrier 14 - TYPHOON SEASON

by Keith Douglass

  "Yes, sir." Coyote turned without another word and strode out of the room.

  Batman faced the others. Their expressions were uniformly grim. "I don't need to tell you what this could lead to. Washington is working for a diplomatic solution, but it's our job to assume, and prepare for, the worst." He pointed at the photos. "Which could include dealing with this thing--or things, if it's got relatives. So, Tomboy, I repeat How do we kill them?"

  She chewed on her lip. "Okay. We can expect UAVs in general to be much more agile than a Tomcat or even a Hornet because G forces aren't a problem for a pilot. They'll also be tough targets for missiles; they have diffusion exhausts to blur their heat signatures, and stealth profiles to throw off radar." She looked at Batman and must have caught something from his expression. "Sorry, sir. Our best strategy is to fly high and watch low. Stealth or no stealth, the Chinese seem to like hiding these bogeys in surface clutter, so that's the direction they'll come from. Also, make sure fighter teams stick close together. Solitary aircraft seem to be the preferred targets."

  "Especially if they're unarmed," Lab Rat added.

  Batman nodded. "All right, let's make sure the wings of all patrolling aircraft are as dirty as possible. We want everything we put in the air to look like a major threat."

  Abruptly, Bird Dog spoke. "Wait. Wait ..."

  Everyone turned toward him. For the first time, Batman noticed that the young pilot was clutching a worn paperback book between his hands. The Art of War. Bird Dog stared into space for several seconds, then seemed to snap back into the room. "Has anyone wondered why we've seen this bogey at all?"

  "What are you talking about?" Batman asked.

  "Tomboy just reminded us about its stealth characteristics. So I was thinking ... this bogey could have shot down that Air Force jet before anyone knew it was there. Same thing with Tomboy and me. The bogey hung behind us for God knows how long before releasing its missile. In other words, both times it was spotted, it seemed deliberate."

  Batman frowned. As rational explanations went, this one ranked right up there with Bird Dog's earlier claim that the Chinese must have attacked Lady of Leisure in order to keep the U.S. Navy in the vicinity.

  "Why would the Chinese want us to see their stealthiest plane?" Batman asked. "Why tip their hand that way?"

  Bird Dog riffled the pages of his paperback. He didn't seem to be aware he was doing it. "Politics," he said finally. "When one nation gains enough of a military technological advantage over another, the second country has to react. If the Chinese can convince us they've got highly advanced UAV capabilities, that will affect how Washington behaves in future negotiations. And if that can be accomplished without actually having to produce a working inventory of combat UAVs, all the better."

  "You're suggesting this bogey was a red herring?" Batman asked, pointing at the photos.

  "No. Obviously it's a viable weapons platform. I'm just suggesting it might not be as viable as we think it is; the Chinese might be using it so sparingly because it has weaknesses they don't want us to know about. I say we have to factor that into our planning, so we aren't too conservative out there."

  Batman stared at Bird Dog for a long time, then at Lab Rat. Lab Rat's expression never changed, but Batman read his eyes and nodded. "All right. Bird Dog, I want you, Tomboy and Lab Rat to come up with a range of battle plans based on facing both UAVs and normal Chinese assets." He turned back toward the pictures. "Earlier you said the Chinese try to win wars without fighting. If that's so, I want us to be ready to give them a punch they'll never forget."

  1300 local (-8 GMT) Main cell PLA prison compound

  "Wonder why they didn't let us outside today?" Tombstone said. He was sitting on the floor, back leaning against the concrete wall of what he and Lobo had come to call "Grand Central," the large cell in which they were both usually kept. He'd folded one of the blankets that were the room's only furnishings into a thick cushion beneath him. Lobo sat on a second blanket. A third had been rigged as a privacy screen around the waste bucket.

  "Guess they don't like the rain," Lobo said, nodding toward the single small window. Nothing was visible beyond it except darkness, but earlier in the day they had been able to see water droplets running down the glass.

  "I don't think that's it," Tombstone said. "Now that I've had time to think about it, I'm bothered by the fact that they ever did let us outside."

  "Because of the satellites?"

  "The Chinese aren't stupid. They know we have spy satellites capable of picking out a particular face from orbit, and they're bound to assume we have one parked over Hong Kong right now. So, yeah, I have to wonder Why did they let us wander around outside at all?"

  Lobo turned toward him. Although it probably wasn't possible, her face looked thinner than yesterday, almost gaunt. But her eyes were fierce with calculation. "I've been wondering about that, too, and I can only think of two reasons Either they want Washington to know where we are, for some reason, or else they're holding us someplace satellites aren't likely to be watching."

  Tombstone nodded. "Neither one makes me optimistic about our chances of rescue. You?"

  "No, but what can we do about it?"

  "We can leave," Tombstone said.

  1330 local (-8 GMT) PLA Air Force Operations Room Hong Kong

  "What is your strategy?" Yeh asked. "Why are you sending so many fighters up--in this weather?"

  Chin didn't even turn from the tactical display screen on the wall of the Operations Room. He pointed at an icon. "The American aircraft carrier Jefferson is steaming toward Hong Kong."

  Yeh stared at the display, and felt a shiver of dismay at how little of it he could decipher; how far he had fallen behind in matters of warfare. These days, his job was politics and enforcing philosophical rectitude. Still, he knew that Chin was in the process of launching nearly half the SAR's fighter aircraft into the thundering pre-dawn darkness. "Hong Kong weather warns that this storm could be developing into a typhoon," he said.

  "Our aircraft are all-weather fighters, Comrade. The weather means nothing to them."

  "But why so many?"

  "Because the Americans are preparing to attack Hong Kong."

  The skin on Yeh's back prickled. "You know this for a fact?"

  "Yes."

  "How?"

  "They will have no choice."

  "You've warned Beijing?"

  "Not yet. 'He whose generals are able and not interfered with by the sovereign will be victorious.'"

  "You are a very daring man, Major General Chin. Perhaps too daring for your own good."

  Chin shook his head. "Beijing will question my actions only if we lose."

  "You do realize that an American battle group carries more firepower than-"

  Chin raised a hand. "I know the statistics. They don't Concern me."

  "Why not?"

  "Because an aircraft carrier battle group is only as good as its carrier."

  "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying I have some surprises in store for our American friends."

  1400 local (-8 GMT) CDF Patrol Boat South China Sea

  The Coastal Defense Force patrol boat had seemed large and capable enough in Victoria Harbor, but in the open sea its limitations became obvious. Still, it had been modified for that environment with an extra-heavy keel, sealed doors on all hatches and ports, and a snorkel intake for the engine that helped keep water out. It could be completely submerged without any danger of shipping water and sinking.

  That didn't mean that riding in it in these conditions was a pleasure. But that was all right. Chou and his men were not being paid to have fun.

  "Distance?" Chou asked the radar operator.

  "One hundred and fifty kilometers."

  "And our ducks?"

  "Unless the aircraft carrier alters course, the ducks will converge on the intercept location just before dawn."

  "Not too much before. They'll need light to see what they're doing."

 
; The radar man nodded. "I'll keep an eye on it. But these conditions make predicting anything very difficult."

  "The ducks have been well paid already, and know they'll receive double that amount when they return--if they do what they're supposed to do. It's more money than any of them expected to see in ten lifetimes. I think that's plenty of incentive to get them where they're supposed to be when they're supposed to be there."

  "This storm is turning into a typhoon. Many of the ducks will never make it back to Hong Kong at all."

  "Then they won't be paid." Chou turned to the radio operator. "You're still in touch with all the ducks?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And they understand the importance of coordination? Everything must happen exactly on our signal. They under stand that?"

  "They understand." Chou nodded. "Carry on."

  1450 local (-8 GMT) Bridge USS Jefferson

  Coyote was swaying on his feet from exhaustion, although he was trying to pretend that it was just the unpredictable motion of the ship. Despite all odds, Dr. George had been right; during the night, the weather conditions had graduated to "tropical storm," and were moving rapidly onward. Satellite data showed the clear cloud patterns of a typhoon developing to the southeast.

  Outside, the horizon line was smudged from existence by wind-whipped spray, pounding rain and streamers of cloud. Everything was shades and tints of gray. This was weather only fools and Navy sailors--assuming there was a difference--would be out in. Then he saw the first junk. Later, there would be questions asked of the officer of the deck and the junior officer of the deck who was responsible for watching the SPA-25G radar repeater on the bridge, and of the lookouts, and of the boatswain's mate of the watch, who was supposed to be keeping an eye out for obstacles in the water, but no blame would be laid. Not in conditions like these, where curtains of visibility were opened and closed at random.

  The junk looked ridiculous out here, a silly toy with its elevated stern house and stubby bow. The sails were furled, of course, leaving the job of propulsion to some kind of rinky-dink engine that had to fight winds currently peaking at over eighty mph, not to mention seas that must look like mountains from the deck of the junk.

  Before Coyote could say anything, he heard one of the lookouts say, "Holy shit" in a wondering voice.

  Coyote turned back toward the windows. His eyes widened.

  The junk was not alone. The ocean was full of boats. Not ships but boats, none more than forty feet long. Junks, san pans, rectangular houseboats, sport-fishing cruisers. At a glance, they were all in pretty sorry shape; not one looked like the kind of vessel you'd want to take out of protected waters even during mild weather--never mind this.

  But there they were, bobbing around like rubber ducks in a bathtub while 97,000 tons of nuclear-powered aircraft carrier plowed through them.

  "Oh, lord," Coyote said. "OOD, back off to bare steerageway. Just pray nobody's right in front of us." But he wasn't going to call for evasive action. For one thing, an aircraft carrier was not a cigarette boat; a carrier turned as nimbly as a skyscraper with a keel. For another, in this weather the visibility in any direction, including straight ahead, was so intermittent and limited that attempting to set any kind of avoidance course was pointless.

  He grabbed for the phone.

  1455 local (-8 GMT) PLA Patrol Boat South China Sea

  "All ducks reporting in," the radio operator said. "They are in position, and the carrier is in sight."

  Chou nodded, although he doubted all the ducks were truly in position. Not in this wind and these seas. Many of the ducks were almost certainly far off the mark, and simply denying it. But that was all right. There were a lot of ducks out there; only a handful had to have reached their positions on time. "Begin the countdown," he told the radioman.

  "Countdown begins," the radioman said into his headset, broadcasting to all the ducks in the South China Sea. "On my mark," Chou said. He raised a hand. "Ten-"

  "Ten," the radio operator repeated into his headset. "Nine-"

  "Nine," the radio operator repeated. "Eight ...

  1500 local (-8 GMT) Bridge USS Jefferson

  Refugees, Coyote thought. It was the only possible explanation for this haphazard flotilla--Hong Kong citizens making a truly desperate attempt to escape the abrupt iron hand of the People's Republic. Fools, but brave fools. Imagine deliberately sailing out into this weather, with a typhoon roaring into existence just over the horizon. You had to admire-

  His thought was cut off by a small but intense flare of light in the distance, down near the water. This was followed by another, then another, and another, originating from points all over the compass. The flares turned into long streamers unwinding toward Jefferson.

  Before Coyote had quite registered what the streamers meant, the carrier's Phalanx Close-In Weapons System began to roar.

  1510 local (-8 GMT) Main holding cell PLA prison

  Tombstone was beginning to fear the guards would never arrive with lunch. His butt was going numb from sitting in one spot, waiting.

  But finally he heard the heavy thud of the bolt sliding back. The door swung open, revealing the usual arrangement one guard standing at the ready, AK-47 raised, with another guard behind him holding two bowls of rice and a jug of fresh water.

  The armed guard looked at Tombstone sitting against the wall, a coarse blanket pulled halfway up his chest. His naked chest. Tombstone saw the man's eyes register the nakedness, then move to the tufts of short brown hair exposed above the top edge of the blanket. Move down to the unmistakably feminine shape the blanket made under TombStone's curled arm.

  The guard grinned and said something over his shoulder to the guard with the food, who laughed. Both men walked into the room. The armed guard kept grinning, but never lowered the muzzle of his automatic rifle.

  Neither man saw or heard Lobo step out from behind the Privacy curtain. Her feet were bare. Tombstone was careful not to let his gaze even flicker in her direction, but his view of her was clear nonetheless as she set her feet, then charged straight at the guard with the food. She slammed into his back with all her weight, driving him into the back of the armed guard.

  Tombstone was already moving, rolling to one side in case the guard reflexively triggered the AK-47. At the same time, he tightened his grip on the handle of the empty waste bucket he'd been holding under the blanket.

  There was no gunfire. Tombstone stumbled to his feet, cursing the numbness of his legs, as the two guards stumbled toward him. He swung the bucket over his head and down like a sledgehammer, smashing it with all his strength and fury against the back of the armed guard's skull. The wooden slats of the bucket exploded in all directions. Without hesitation, Tombstone took a step and drove the point of his elbow into the second guard's throat. Both guards crashed to the floor, one unconscious and bleeding, the other coughing and gagging. Tombstone raised a foot and stomped down on the latter man's head once, twice. Felt the surrendering snap of bone. The gagging sounds stopped.

  Tombstone looked at Lobo. "Guess I'll have to report You for a grooming violation," he said, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice. "That haircut's awful."

  Lobo bent down and unholstered the second guard's sidearm. "Are you kidding? People in Paris pay a fortune to have their hair look like this."

  "Then maybe Parisian barbers should start cutting with wood slivers." Tombstone gathered up a couple of the blankets and threw one to her. Then he grabbed the AK-47 off the floor. "Let's get the hell out of here."

  1511 local (-8 GMT) USS Jefferson

  The Phalanx CIWS was a carrier's last-ditch line of defense. There were two Phalanx installations on Jefferson, one mounted on the port bow, the other on the starboard stern. At a glance, they looked like giant water heaters mounted on top of M-61A1 Gatling guns. The water heaters were actually housings for the systems' automatic search-and-track radars, along with 1,550 rounds of ammunition. The Gatlings were, in turn, mounted on balanced, motorized carriages th
at could rotate, pivot and rock through all three axis.

  A Phalanx system was designed to detect an incoming airborne threat with its radar and pass this data on to the carriage's motors, which immediately swung the Gatling gun toward the threat. The gun then spewed ammo at the rate of 4,500 rounds per minute, creating a curtain of metal through which virtually nothing could pass intact. Everything happened with breathtaking speed, the 13,600-pound Phalanx unit bobbing and twisting as nimbly as a flyweight boxer.

  At least, it sounded good on paper. But even though the Phalanx system had surpassed its performance specifications in all tests, it was still not much trusted by sailors. How could you really put your faith in something almost untested in actual combat? Especially since to activate the system, an incoming missile or enemy aircraft had to first make it safely through the other defenses of the fleet, including the cruisers and frigates with their ship-to-air missiles, Hawkeyes and their radar net, and numerous fighters flying BARCAP. This was something that simply did not happen.

  Until now.

  A total of fifteen missiles raced toward Jefferson from various boats in the Hong Kong flotilla. Eleven of the bogeys were FIM-92 Stingers, American-made hand-launchable heatseeking missiles designed for foot soldiers to use against low-flying helicopters and aircraft. The Stinger had a dual-thrust rocket motor capable of pushing its 2.2 pound armor-penetrating warhead to Mach one in a couple of seconds. From there, a heat-seeking head equipped with a reprogrammable microprocessor would guide the missile to its target over a maximum range of approximately three miles.

  The other missiles in the salvo were AT-4 anti-tank missiles, also fired from hand-held, expendable launchers. But the AT-4 was designed for one purpose only to destroy armored land vehicles. It had a range of only a thousand yards, which it reached in less than two seconds; then, at the moment of impact, an 84mm HEAT shaped-charge warhead would go off, flash-melting a hole in even rolled homogenous armor plating of up to 400mm thickness. The rest of the warhead's energy would turn the interior of the vehicle into a fiery cauldron.